little bit'a everything, whole lotta nuttin

It is said you cannot walk the past: the past being past. Turn your eyes to the future: your time better spent. And yet here my eyes see the stars of former orbits. There and here and do you remember. A past at hand, rather than behind. And a fear clutches my voice. For future is the void to fore, eating my path. A halo crowns him with a grim wet sky.

Memories passing in twinkling winks of promise. This time that time oh that time, a parade stands as I am run towards the maw. Abyssal teeth I hear waiting as homes break the night. They dance the rhythm of yesterday. A merry jig. A merry lie.

The homes too had teeth. They once an erebor, a waiting smog, for my journey's end. And the journey did not stop. Homes of fear and silence.

But one light, one star, a patient, quiet star, promises the Home-not-yet, the Home-not-seen. The Home at the edge and behind every mountain. Echoed in every word and every hurt. And this light dawns the rememberance: the journey past and present, future, end. And it whispers, "onward."

She holds the door as shield before her eye. Peering with single vision at strange voice. Her hand halts the ready child, keeping from the unknown. Fear cuts her half, undoing. And she cannot give herself. The strange can not know her; they can not see. And she can not be. The fear rules and the fear reigns and she holds the door.

The strange ask and seek and love and listen, wanting whole what is not given. But shield cuts the fearful heart and care cankers the hidden hand. The other is given glimpse and glimmer of the given not the giver. Truth is removed in sight, and she cannot hear the counter word. Protected and safe and dying.

And I am she and she is me and we fear the fearful. Yet my door will never hold the water. My hand cannot save my child. This house is falling and I hold back the saver. Hear words that please and flee words that hurt true. One eye to blind and one eye to see the world's dangers pass.

The wind talks to the land. It speaks calming words to the sun and loving words to the neck. It paces the dust, the wind. It lifts the child to hear its voice. It paces the lane, stepping across a yard and a dog and a field and a fence.

The wind opens doors, a knock and a smile. It kicks a ball off the chain. It lifts a wall to the sky, with sweat and laughs. A twist and it carries a scent. Carving the dirt in descent and ascent, the wind weaves the ladder's legs. It moves the imitate mouth. It regales crowns and sweeps the scrap. It sings a song through the strings of the willing.

It caresses the hurt, comforts the tear, binds the broke. It speaks the language of no voice. It unlocks the doors of today into the land of forever. This wind holds up a man in a tree. It wipes the blood from his eyes. And it falls to the heads of the people below, the humble, the meek, and the mild.

It is a sky of somber fire, growing build of ember. Wide swathes of cascading hills atop blackened plains. And everything feels a song. Purpose in purple strands reaching in globéd fingers. They close into darkness, and the stars dance a chorus in entry.

And I cannot find the name of the scene before me. And I cannot find my place. And my voice is a rasp on the melody, a noise in the peace.

A whisper asks courage.

The song falls to the ground and walks circles. Turning and turning around my feet. My eyes twist in the mael. My hand is slow behind the music. Chasing the spin, dizzy in dance.

And I cannot learn the pace. And I cannot catch the circling chant. And I cannot repeat. And I cannot speak. And my voice is a rasp on the melody.